


The Words Not Spoken

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The last words Dean ever spoke were to his brother.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Words Not Spoken

The last words Dean ever spoke were to his brother: "I'm not gonna leave you," promised through a mouth filled with blood. He couldn't even see straight as he said them, with one eye dangerously swollen and the rest of his face battered and bruised.

He may have said more – he wanted to – but then Michael appeared, looking angry and self-righteous and _scared_. The archangel waved his hand, and whatever Dean would have said, whatever words he may have spoken either in goodbye or in warning or in denial, vanished from his tongue.

It took a long time after that to realize something was actually wrong. When things got bad, Dean's natural reaction was to withdraw into himself. Sam tumbled into the Pit, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was talk about it.

There was a moment, when Castiel was brought back from the dead a second time, that Dean wondered if perhaps his friend was God, but he didn't ask the question. Didn't need to, anyway, because Castiel read it in his eyes easily enough, and reassured Dean in a soft voice that that was not the case.

There was another moment, in the car, when Dean wanted to yell. Wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all, of losing Sam, of having _nothing_. But the effort to voice his anger was too much, and of course, Castiel felt it anyway, even without the words. It was his gentle rebuke that soothed away the impotent rage and left only a weary hopelessness in its place, and then he was gone as well and Dean truly had nothing left.

There was never a moment during his goodbye to Bobby when Dean felt there was anything that needed saying. A gruff hug, a clap on the shoulder, and Bobby telling him to look after himself. That was it, and then it was back to the solitude of the Impala, the purr of her engine the only sound he needed or wanted.

The drive took three days and his phone stayed off. He slept in the car because he couldn't be bothered to have to talk to a desk clerk, and anyway, a motel room would only serve as a reminder he couldn't deal with.

Lisa welcomed him with a soft cry and a warm hug and no questions. Showed him to the guest room, and didn't ask if he was all right because the answer was obvious. She left him to sleep, and if Ben ever tried to get in to talk to him, she must have cut him off at the pass, because for nearly a week Dean stayed in bed, tears soaking into his pillow, food he didn't want to eat left for him outside his door.

By then it had been nearly two weeks since the last time he'd spoken a word, and it would be two more before he realized he _couldn't_ speak another one.

~*~

Dean wakes the way he always does, an hour before the alarm goes off, his hand curled around the knife he keeps under his pillow, an anguished cry trapped uselessly in his throat.

The nightmare fades slowly as he sits and scrubs and hand over his face, his heartbeat a painful, pounding throb against his ribs. Six months, and it never gets any better. The dreams – memories – are just as potent and terrifying now as they were when he first lost Sam.

Most mornings, Dean is pathetically grateful for his muteness. He sleeps in the guestroom, but the walls are thin enough that it would take little effort to wake Lisa or Ben, and he feels guilty enough without adding the burden of robbing them of sleep every time he would otherwise wake screaming.

Outside, the sky is dull and gray, the threat of rain or maybe even an early snow lingering in the air, and Dean heaves a sigh, letting the curtain fall shut. He dresses – jeans and a t-shirt that he thinks is clean – and heads downstairs for breakfast.

Ben grins at him, the same way he always does, and Dean manages a smile back as he sips his coffee and pointedly avoids the newspaper Lisa nudges towards him. He counts down the seconds until he can leave for work, because Lisa and Ben have been great, _amazing_ really, understanding in ways he never thought regular people could be, but Dean hasn't been able to get comfortable around them, and he doubts he ever will.

The construction site brings with it its own complications. Co-workers who avoid Dean's eyes and whisper about him behind his back, the inability to call directions when he sees something that should be handled differently… Dean's learned to deal with it. He keeps to himself, does his job, doesn't try to make friends. Every once in a while, some new guy will see easy pickings and try to start a fight when the foreman's back is turned, but they usually back down pretty quick. Just because Dean can't yell any taunts at his opponents doesn't mean he's lost his edge. He can throw a punch just as easily when he's silent as he could when he could talk.

He avoids going to the bar these days, though. It's not worth the hassle, and anyway, when he gets drunk the nightmares get worse.

At the end of his shift, he heads back to Lisa's, as usual. Ben's waiting for him, biting his lip and holding onto a pile of homework. This is the best part of Dean's day; he has a notebook of his own, uses it to explain things to Ben when words are necessary, or simply points to subjects in the kid's textbook that Ben may have missed. Sometimes Lisa watches from the kitchen entryway, her mouth tilted up in a barely-there smile, but today, it's just the two of them, Ben's excited chatter drowning out Dean's perpetual silence.

Usually he eats dinner with the Braedens, but sometimes, like tonight, he just wants to be alone. So after the books are put away, he takes his plate of chicken up to his room, eats while watching YouTube videos on Sam's laptop, and does his best to forget how lonely he is all the time.

~*~

There's every chance that things will continue on like this indefinitely, except that Dean happens to glance up one day, and there's Castiel standing across the street, looking around and blinking like he's trying to get his bearings, trying to find something – or someone – without the first idea where to look.

Something in Dean cracks.

He opens his mouth, for the first time in almost a year trying to call out to someone. His heart races, adrenaline coursing through him, but all that escapes his throat is a puff of air, a nearly soundless whisper, and he clamps down on it, going hot then cold, trembling in desperation. _Cas!_

And because it's Castiel, because Castiel has never, ever let him down when it counts, his eyes find Dean's, and some small part of this fucked up world Dean has been living in rights itself.

~*~

Castiel takes him someplace quiet, and Dean only gets the most cursory of glances – they're outdoors, in some sort of secluded meadow – before he's being folded into a hug that leaves him breathless. He doesn't realize he's trembling until Castiel's hand runs down his spine, and the angel pulls back to gaze at him in concern.

Dean wants to say something, _anything_ , wants to reassure Castiel that he's all right, but of course he can't, he can't say a word, and Castiel's brow furrows for a moment before he pulls away entirely, his head tilting.

"You can't speak," the angel says. It's not a question.

Dean's fists clench. The only people who talk to him directly anymore are Ben and Lisa and his boss, and he's grown used to not needing to say anything back to them, because they stopped expecting it a long time ago.

He's never felt so desperate to get a word out as he does right now though, with Castiel so close and a year of mind-numbing solitude behind him. But instead, the only thing he can do is shake his head, his eyes closing as he turns away.

"Your own choosing, or…" Castiel's voice trails off, his hand coming up, gentle fingers brushing Dean's neck at the base of his throat. Dean can't hold back the gasp, his own wide eyes flying to Castiel's as the angel steps closer again, expression intense. "No, this was done to you," Castiel murmurs, sounding angry now. "I can't fix this, which means it must have been an archangel."

Dean swallows hard against Castiel's hand, and it moves lower, caressing his collarbone. Dean isn't even sure if Castiel notices.

"Was it Lucifer?" Castiel asks. At Dean's minute head-shake, he sighs. "Michael, then. Dean…all this time?" His voice becomes something like agonized. "And you didn't… I wasn't here, and you were…"

Dean takes a hitching breath, reaches up to grab Castiel's arm, and shakes his head. _Not your fault_ , he thinks as hard as he can. He thinks Castiel may even hear it, because those blue eyes close, and Dean could swear he feels a shudder run through the normally unflappable angel.

"Dean…" Castiel says. Only his name, but it's enough. In that moment, with just one syllable, every wall Dean's built falls apart, just tumbles down like they were made of sand, and everything he's held back, everything he's kept bottled inside because he had no choice, is suddenly _right there_. The loneliness, the pain, the desolation, the anger, the hopelessness, _everything_ , and he presses a hand to his chest, closes his eyes against it all as his breathing becomes as erratic as his heartbeat…

…and then, all at once, Castiel is there, tugging the hand away, taking Dean's face between soft, too-warm hands, and his lips find Dean's, and…

… _Oh_ …

It's like Dean is melting, suddenly boneless against Castiel, and one of Castiel's hands moves down to curl around his waist, holding him steady as his mouth opens against Dean's and every terrible feeling inside of Dean begins to flow away.

He didn't know… He didn't know that Castiel would be able to feel him screaming, even when the only place he can do so is inside his own mind, and God, Castiel understands, better than anyone else could, and Castiel is _here_.

For the first time since Dean lost the ability to speak, it feels like someone can hear him, and all of the pain that he's been forced to keep inside, letting it eat away at him, finally finds an outlet. Because Castiel has never needed Dean's words. He gets Dean better than anyone, and Dean has never needed to say what he's thinking for Castiel to just _know_.

He's crying, he thinks, can feel the wetness against his cheek, but Castiel doesn't stop kissing him, swallowing the silent sobs and replacing them with whispered endearments in languages Dean doesn't know but somehow understands anyway.

"I'm going to find a way to fix this," Castiel promises in a low voice, leaning his forehead against Dean's and letting Dean catch his breath.

Dean marvels at how much lighter he feels right now – carved out from the inside, empty and numb in some ways, and so full in others – and it's all a big mix of confusion, but it doesn't matter because it’s still better than anything he's had since Stull. He can't speak, can't tell Castiel what it means to him that Castiel is here and that he cares. Every word that gets trapped inside still hurts, but so much less because he knows that Castiel already knows.

And when Dean's thoughts open to the angel and he begs, _Just stay, please stay, God, don't leave me again_ , he knows Castiel understands that as well.

Castiel claims his mouth again, and Dean feels more than sees dark wings folding around him. There is the softest whisper against his lips, a murmured ' _I promise_ ', and it's enough.

Dean can't speak, but Castiel will always hear him.

  


***


End file.
